Rule of Three
by Beguile
Summary: This is the third time Abigail Hobbs has bled to death on a kitchen floor; first time the death has really stuck though. Spoilers for "Mizumono". One-shot.


Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of the Dino de Laurentiis Company and its related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: This is the third time Abigail Hobbs has bled to death on a kitchen floor; first time the death has really stuck though. Spoilers for "Mizumono". One-shot.

Author's Notes: I think this was the cut that hurt the most in the finale, though I was admittedly a poor judge of pain by the time it happened. I'm still reeling from the episode, so this is drabbling drabble. I hope you don't hate it.

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Rule of Three

This is the third time I've been bleeding to death on a kitchen floor: first time the death really stuck though. I think it's because this is the time first time someone really _tried _to kill me. Dad's hand was shaking when he cut me; he felt bad and was busy being shot at the time, so he didn't cut that deep. The next time – same kitchen – the intention was never to kill me. Dr. Lecter told me he was going to protect me, and I believed him because he _had_ protected me. He had held the blood in my body during my first death. He kept me hidden from the FBI after the second. He offered his hand and said we'd run away together just before the third.

I sometimes wondered what would happen if I told, if I sat down one day with Freddie Lounds and spilled the beans on everything: what Dad and I did, what Dr. Lecter and I did, what Dr. Lecter did. I'd let her reassure me that I was the real victim even though I wouldn't believe it. It's nice to hear the white lies you tell yourself coming from other people: makes them easier to believe.

After my second death, I stopped wondering. There's only one reason a girl lets a serial killer cut off her ear and keep her locked in his guest room, and it has nothing to do with being a victim. By the time Dad was killed, I wasn't helping him out of self-preservation. Honouring those girls made me feel special, powerful. We were in a fight to the death, and I was playing to win. Dr. Lecter was the logical choice for a new father: I already killed to survive, and he taught me how to kill in order to _live_.

This was before he locked me in the guest room. Before I _let him_ lock me in the guest room. Before he'd bled me out on the kitchen floor and asked, no, _told_ me he was going to cut off my ear and give it to the FBI.

Before he offered his hand, took me in his arms, and cut my throat again, right over top of the scar from my first death. In front of the man who murdered my dad, the man who wanted so badly to be my father.

I thought we were leaving. I thought we were going away together. He showed me the plane tickets to Paris, had me learning French, enrolled me in courses so that I could earn my baccalaureate. We had new names, new identities; we would be a real family out in the world. Will Graham was even supposed to be coming with us. Dr. Lecter was actually going to be my father.

I think I knew. I feel like I knew. He was the first person to use the word 'resurrected' to describe me, as if I actually had died and something else returned in my place. I'd been called a survivor before that, because I hadn't _really_ died. I had lived through my father. I wanted to believe that I would thrive with Dr. Lecter – _he_ wanted me to believe that I would thrive. So when he locked the door behind me, when he told me not to make a sound, when he said to do exactly what he told me, I…I had to believe it was because that was what I wanted to do. I had to believe that I was free. I had to believe that I was safe with him, even as I did everything in my power to make sure he had no reason to kill me.

Kind of like Dad. A lot like Dad, actually, but Dad had the decency to get his fix with other girls. Dr. Lecter doesn't accept substitutions.

My first death was full of panic and regret. My second death was full of panic and fear. My third comes quietly. I know now that I didn't survive, I wasn't resurrected: I was simply reanimated both times. Like a zombie in some horror film. I just limped on, mindless, hungry for my dad the cannibal murderer right to the bitter end.

Maybe it's the shock setting in. Maybe when you die – _for real_, this time – you don't care, because you're not going to be around to see how it ends. I don't have to worry about Mom or Dad; I don't worry about Dr. Lecter. I don't worry about Will or Dr. Bloom. I don't even worry about me. I have bled to death before.

Third time's a charm.

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Sad reading.


End file.
